Day 6:
I look around the room and feel let down by the lack of darkness and sterility. I had an image of what an interrogation room might look like: two-way mirror, scratched metal table, a high watt bulb lighting my face and making me sweat. Instead, the room looks more like a kindergarten classroom with art projects and motivational sayings glued onto bright construction paper on the walls. I am sitting on a plastic chair, staring at Reed across the round, faux-wood, table in front of me.
“Okay,” Reed says. He releases a breath, “just to get the chronology right: After you were kidnapped, you spent approximately three weeks, locked in a dark room, in a city you can’t recall. You escape the man known as ‘Caleb’, and are, almost immediately, held for ransom by a man named ‘Tiny’, and his motorcycle gang. You contact your friend, Nicole Freedman, and ask her to obtain your ransom of one-hundred-thousand-dollars and meet ‘Tiny’, in Chihuahua, Mexico, to exchange your freedom for the money. You never make it to the drop because you are rescued, by ‘Caleb’. In the morning, you discover he has kidnapped two people and held them hostage in their home. He leaves them alive, but steals their car and you both drive into Zacatecas, Mexico. You are there for approximately three months.”
There is a long pause, as though he expects me say some other thing that will amaze him. He’ll be vastly disappointed. He ought to start expecting disappointment.
“Is that all correct?” Reed asks.
“You look like you want to spit every time you say his name,” I say, without inflection.
“My feelings are irrelevant,” Reed says.
“They’re relevant to me.”
Reed shakes his head and can’t seem to stop himself from giving me his two cents, “He’s a human trafficker, Miss Ruiz, a murderer, and a rapist. He didn’t rescue you. He captured you. There’s a wide distinction between the two. Have you considered you might have Stockholm’s Syndrome? Otherwise, I can’t see how you can defend him on any reasonable level.”
My vision is blurry. “He was a lot of things, that’s true enough,” I say. My voice is raspy and my lips tremble with the force of my sorrow. “But he was also more than what you’ve written in your damn reports.” I blink, and glare at Agent Reed. “It was the bikers who tried to rape me. It was the bikers who nearly beat me to death! If Caleb hadn’t stopped them, I’d probably be dead.”
“Is he the one who killed them?” Reed asks, insistently.
I take a deep breath and lean back in my chair, wiping the tears from my face, “How would I know?” I shrug. “I was unconscious.”
“I’m not defending what those men did to you. Especially, if it happened the way you said it did.”
“Are you implying it didn’t happen that way?”
Reed lets out an exasperated breath, “I didn’t say that. I’m interested in the truth and nothing more.” There’s a long pause, both of us regrouping. “The auction. When is it supposed to happen?”
“Caleb said about a week from now.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Pakistan, somewhere.”
Reed’s questions come at me quickly. I have no choice but to answer just as fast. I don’t want him to mistake my pauses for answers. Worse, I don’t want him to think I’m taking time to form a lie – which I am. “So, according to Caleb and Muhammad Rafiq, Demitri Balk, also referred to as, Vladek Rostrovich, is supposed to be there?”
“I guess,” I grind out.
“Will, Rafiq, be there?”
“How the fuck would I know?”
“Will, Caleb, be there?”
“Caleb’s dead!” I pound my hand against the table. “How many times do I have to say it?” Reed sits back, unconvinced, “How did he die?”
“I told you already!”
“Tell me again.”
“Fuck you!”
“Whose blood was on your clothes when they brought you in?”
“His.”
“How did it get there?” He leans toward me.
“I told you! He died in my fucking arms.”
“And it was all very romantic, who killed him?”
I burst out of my chair and throw it behind me, knocking it into another table and littering the floor with art supplies. “Stop asking me! I’ve answered already.”
Reed stands quickly and circles the table. Before I can run, before I can even react to the fear racing through me, he has me face down on the table with my arms behind my back. I feel the cold from his cuffs, and then hear them click as he cinches them around my wrists. It occurs to me I should never have asked to be alone with him. There’s no one to watch him. There is only my word against his.
I struggle, but he holds me very easily. He’s obviously done this before. Caleb would be impressed. I am less so, “Get the fuck off me, you asshole!”
His voice is calm, but filled with authority, “I’ll let you go as soon as you calm down. I don’t like being threatened, Miss Ruiz.”
“I didn’t –” I start to say and am interrupted.
“You can’t throw the furniture around. I take that as a threat.” I am furious! But his tone is so calm and collected. I know if I don’t settle down, he’ll hold me like this forever. It’s almost tempting, but I force myself to let my body go soft. This is a battle I can’t win.
Reed releases his hold on me in degrees, the calmer I am, the looser his hold and soon I am free of him and standing. He’s much taller than me; I don’t even reach his shoulder, so I have to crane my head all the way back to glower at him.
“If you spit at me, you won’t like what I do next,” he says very seriously, but I can see the barest trace of a smile. Caleb.
“What about what I asked for?” I whisper the words, taking advantage of our closeness. I’m not nearly as bruised as I used to be and I know what men like him, men with power, like from beautiful women like me. I sway my body toward him, trying to make it seem incidental.
He frowns and gives me a strange look. Slowly, his hands come up to rest on my shoulders, they’re warm. I wonder if his mouth is too. I lick my bottom lip and his eyes track my tongue. He reminds me. He reminds me so much of him. It’s been days since someone has touched me in a way I might enjoy.
He pushes me back gently. This man is all business. “Entry into Witness Protection isn’t guaranteed,” he says. He grabs the chair I threw and motions for me to sit. “This crosses international lines, not just federal. The DOJ is currently reviewing this case and it depends on other complicated factors.” He sets it down where he wants and looks at me. “Sit down.”
I look at the chair and raise my arms from behind my back, wiggling my fingers.
“I’m going to leave those on. Forgive me if I don’t trust you.”
I force a smile just to piss him off, “I won’t sign anything until you come through. I’ll say I lied about everything.”
He steps closer, “Have you been lying, Miss Ruiz?” His gaze is hot and smoldering – intimidating as hell. If it weren’t for the fact I’ve been with Caleb for so long, I’d probably piss like a puppy, but after Caleb, Reed’s threats feel like a caress. “Sit. Down,” he orders less nicely.
I sit slowly, giving him the sultriest look I can muster. He holds my eyes the entire time, trying to maintain his authority, his control. I slowly lean over and spit on his shoe. I look up at him, lips wet, and smile.
His hand wraps around my bicep with enough force to make me wince and he hauls me to my feet. “We’re done for today. You can go back to your room.” He shoves me toward the door and I go without a fight.
I want to go back to my room. I’m too close to falling apart and I don’t want Reed to see it. I don’t want anyone to see me falling apart.
***
Day 7:
The ache in my chest is ever-present. I dream of Caleb whenever my eyes are closed. I can touch him in my dreams. I can run my hands along his smooth, sun-kissed skin. He’s always so warm; he has so much heat inside him.
I press my nose to his chest and inhale deeply. There is a familiar tug of arousal as my nipples pebble and my pussy swells. Standing up on my toes, I press my lips to his. He won’t open his mouth to me. He wants me to beg. My Caleb loves it when I beg. With him, I always have a reason to. I hear myself whimper softly and then I brush my nose against his. Against my lips, I can feel him smile. He opens his mouth and lets me sweep my tongue inside. Mmmm. I could spend a lifetime trying to describe the decadence of Caleb’s mouth. He tastes like everything I’ve ever wanted to eat. Unlike biting into a tender, warm, juicy piece of meat – Caleb’s flavor never fades. It builds. I want him more with every slide of his tongue against mine. I whimper louder. Beg harder. More. Please, give me more.
I can hear him. He moans against my lips. Softly, he inhales and exhales as we kiss. He never stops kissing me; he simply continues to steal my breath, returning it to me only when he’s infused it with his essence. Pure lust lives inside him. Every breath I take should come from his lungs.
This is what it’s like to dream of him.
This is what I lose when I wake.
***
The situation is uncomfortable to say the very least. In fact, it’s closer to insufferable. Agent Reed is not here. His invitation has been revoked by Dr. Sloan. I can’t say I’m unhappy about it. Still, it means I am alone with Dr. Sloan, and I can be unhappy about that.
She found me crying yesterday. Gripping Caleb’s picture to my chest and rocking.
I rather like rocking. I’m doing it now.
She asked about the photo of course, asked about what had happened between Agent Reed and me. I refused to respond to her questions – she had nothing to offer me – no photos to dangle in front of me. I haven’t said a word since I was brought back to my room yesterday.
Agent Reed returned this morning, ready for another round of what he calls an interview, and I refer to as, an interrogation. Dr. Sloan got here an hour before he did. I watched, detached, as she asked Agent Reed to step outside with her. He gave me the stink-eye as he turned to leave. I guess he thinks I’m a rat. I don’t really care though, because it means I can keep quiet a little longer. When Dr. Sloan returned, she was obviously tense. Whatever was said left her in a huff. If I weren’t so grief-stricken, I might have smiled.
She’s much calmer now. She has shut the door to my room, entombing us, but she hasn’t asked me any questions…yet. I rock back and forth, cradling Caleb’s photo in my hands, as I sit on my bed. He is so beautiful. I love him so very much.
Dr. Sloan is sitting in a chair near the corner, knitting a sweater of all things. It’s a strange design – unless she has a pet octopus she likes to put clothes on. A few times, I’ve been tempted to ask her what the fuck that is about.
She catches me watching her.
“It gives me something to do with my hands,” she says through a rueful smile. “A lot of times I am the last person people want to talk to. So I just sit down and knit. I understand the mechanics of it, but I haven’t really learned how to make anything. I guess you could call it ‘free-form knitting’.” She laughs at her own joke.
This woman is ridiculous.
For a moment there is a pause and I think we’ve reached the end of our one-sided conversation, but then she sighs and keeps right on talking.
“I never really had anyone to teach me how to knit. I think most people learn from their mother or grandmother, but I grew up in foster care, so I had to learn on my own. I picked it up a few years ago when a friend of mine suggested I get a hobby. A mindless hobby. I’m a bit of an over-thinker. If I don’t find a way to shut my brain off I just keep thinking and thinking and thinking. Mostly about work. My job can be pretty thankless sometimes.” She glances up at me and smiles again.
I roll my eyes. She’s obviously trying to annoy me to death.
“See, told you. Thankless.”
For the love of Christ, shut – up! Let a bitch enjoy her mental breakdown in peace.
“I liked it so much I picked up a few other hobbies.”
Oh god. Please don’t.
“I make my own beanie babies. Well, not really my own, because we already know I can’t knit or sew worth a damn, but I like to buy them, take them apart, and then put them back together in some pretty interesting ways. I like to call it ‘interpretive taxidermy’.”
Kill me. Just, fucking, kill me.
“It’s a little redundant I guess, since most taxidermy involves putting things together in an interpretive way. Still, I’m the only one who calls it that. It’s my own little spin.”
“Do you have any hobbies, Olivia?” she looks up at me.
I can’t help the way my eyes narrow. I wish she’d stop calling me that.
“You don’t like it, do you? When I use your name?”
I give an infinitesimal shake of my head that isn’t really voluntary. The moment I catch myself do it, I scowl and stare down into my lap, at my handsome Caleb.
Caleb.
Don’t. Don’t think about him.
Once again, I am a fragmented person. I am divided between the soft, sentimental, girl who loves Caleb at all costs and the hard, logical, version of me determined to survive – even at the cost of pushing Caleb from my heart.
“Would you prefer Livvie? Your mom says everyone calls you Livvie.”
Tears sting my eyes as I look up toward Dr. Sloan. She is studiously avoiding eye contact, focusing on yet another ‘arm’ of her strange outfit.
I wonder, against my will, if my mother is here. I don’t want to see her, but…why hasn’t she come to see me? Everyone I love betrays me.
Oh, god. Caleb.
Yes, him too. Don’t think about him.
“I spoke with her a great deal yesterday; she wanted to see you.” Dr. Sloan says casually. My heart is skipping every other beat. Panic is rising, but I breathe through it. Barely. “But when I stopped by to ask if it was something you might want….” She frowns and shakes her head angrily. I know she’s thinking about Reed. “I figured I’d wait for you to tell me what you want to do.”
I nod shallowly and feel manipulated when I see her nod, too. She’s getting in my fucking head and I haven’t even said anything.
Caleb says all your emotions are on your face for all to see.
Shut up and stop thinking about him. Be smart for once. Listen to me.
I sigh. Thinking about Caleb hurts, but trying to move beyond my love for him, hurts more. There’s no getting past the pain. There is only a different brand of pain available for my eager consumption.
“Do you want to see your mother?”
I don’t know whether the question is real, or a threat. I carefully abstain from signaling my emotions through my body language or facial expressions. I suppose it works because Dr. Sloan resumes her ridiculous monologue about her hobbies.
“I know what you must be thinking.”
You have no fucking idea.
“That I’m a silly woman with ridiculous hobbies.”
Or maybe you do.
“Though, you’d be surprised to learn, I’m not all free-form knitting and interpretive taxidermy. I have a dark side.”
Hmm…doubtful.
“When I’m really frustrated with things,” she giggles “…I like to get online and change things in Wikipedia!”
This, bitch…is weird.
“I once made up a whole entry based on someone called, the Christmas Amoeba. You see, I’m not much of a baker and I made these holiday cookies for the people at the office. They came out horribly deformed. They tasted fine, mind you, but they were misshapen. Not a round cookie in the bunch.”
I look at her octopus sweater. I’m fairly sure nothing this woman does with her hands is meant for people to see, let alone consume.
“So I left a note next to the cookies. It was a story explaining how a small village near K2…. You know that big mountain, right?” She looks at me to make sure I’m following along.
I lie down on my bed and huff at the ceiling. Where the hell is the nurse with my drugs?
“Anyway, they made a movie about it. Not my cookies,” she cackles, so fucking amused with herself, “…the mountain. Can you imagine if they made a movie about my cookies? So, I made up this story about how this village near K2 celebrates someone called the Christmas Amoeba instead of Santa Claus. He sneaks in undetected – amoebas are microscopic, so it stands to reason someone who’s an amoeba would be very stealthy – on Christmas Eve and leaves presents for everyone. In return, the people of the village leave a variety of oddly shaped cookies for the amoeba to eat. Amoeba’s come in a variety of shapes, so it makes sense.”
She can’t see my face, so I don’t feel like a traitor for smiling at this preposterous woman’s story.
“Well, the people in my office are just sticklers for the truth. You know, everything must be verified, blah, blah, blah. So sure enough, they do a Google search and – BOOM – up pops my entry on Wikipedia about the Christmas Amoeba.”
She dissolves into peals of laughter.
Oh my god, she really is crazy. I bite the inside of my cheeks to keep from laughing. She is laughing so hard. It’s infectious, but I resist it. My shoulders are trembling with withheld laughter. I shut my eyes to assist in the effort.
Caleb is there the moment I shut my eyes.
Joy turns to grief and before I can control it, my emotions just spill over. I open my eyes and bolt up in my bed. I laugh for a second before I burst into tears.
I can hear Dr. Sloan moving. Her steps are coming toward me, cautiously. I don’t care. I’m too tired to care. After so many months of being careful, and hiding every emotion as best I can, and fearing the future, and not knowing what’s going to happen next, and thinking I might die, and fighting for my life, and hating Caleb, and loving him….
For fucksake – I watched a man die!
When Dr. Sloan silently puts her arms around me, I crush her to my body. I hold on to her with all my remaining strength. I cry all over this ridiculous fucking woman.
She doesn’t say a word and I’m grateful. Please, just hold me. Please, just hold me together.
I’m so tired of holding myself together.
She rocks me.
I rather like rocking.
Back and forth we sway for endless minutes while I cry and sob all over Dr. Sloan’s suit jacket. She smells nice. Her scent is light and almost fruity. It is distinctly feminine and therefore, far removed from Caleb. With this feminine scent saturating my nostrils, my brain cannot connect to memories of Caleb and the way he smelled when he held me. It feels nice, being free of the pain of missing him.
Reluctantly, I pull away from her. I am still humming with shame. I don’t know what’s come over me. I wrinkle my brow in confusion and shake my head.
Caleb’s scowling face is staring up at me from the photograph in my lap. I feel a pang of longing. Dr. Sloan pushes my hair from my face and I can’t help but think of it in a sexual way. In another time, I’d have thought nothing of it, but now all my interactions seem tainted by my newfound lust. Caleb trained me well.
“I want to help you, Livvie. Talk to me,” she says, softly. I know she doesn’t want to startle me, but already, I feel the tension creeping back into my shoulders. She’s standing too close and the fact she’s talking to me makes me feel cornered.
She must be able to tell, because she backs up. I relax, just a little.
“I would like to see the charges against you dropped, but you have to talk to someone. Agent Reed is…” she searches for the word she wants to use, “very good at his job, and despite his behavior yesterday, he’s a great guy. However, his first priority is solving his case. My first priority is you. He shouldn’t have pushed you the way he did.”
I look up at her from beneath my lashes. I wish she would hold me again
“I’d like a lawyer,” I whisper.
“Of course. If you’re ready to talk, I’ll find a lawyer for you. But, Livvie, the things you need to talk about go far beyond the legal charges. I’m here to help you with that.”
I nod, but say nothing else.
Dr. Sloan returns to her chair and sits. She looks at me expectantly with her green eyes. She’s pretty, in a very down-played sort of way. With her red hair, the brown suit she is wearing does her no favors. Still, there is something about her, something warm and pleasant.
When it becomes obvious I won’t be the one to keep our little conversation going, she reaches for her knitting and resumes the mindless design.
Dr. Sloan presses her lips together, searching for words.
“Do you want to see your mother?”
I don’t hesitate. “No.”
She stops knitting. “Livvie, the people who love you, accept you for who you truly are. No matter what has happened to you.”
“Well there you go. My mother doesn’t love me, Dr. Sloan. She wants to love me, I think, but…I just don’t think she does.”
She nods, but I can tell she doesn’t believe me. What would she know?
“I think your mother loves you a great deal.”
I stare down at my picture of Caleb. I thought he loved me. Could it be the one person I discounted, loves me more than the one I trusted completely? My heart aches. It’s a question I am not prepared to have answered.
Slowly, I crawl under my covers. I want to go back to sleep. I want to be with Caleb again. In my dreams, there is never a reason to doubt my heart. In my dreams, he is everything I want him to be. He is mine.
As if on cue, Dr. Sloan stops asking me emotionally charged questions and once again regales me with tales of free-form knitting and interpretative taxidermy.
